


A Prince's Favor

by erebones



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Jousting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 18:33:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7694968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ser Carver Hawke, knight of the realm, competes for the title of tourney champion and for the favor of a Tevinter lordling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Prince's Favor

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily inspired by A Knight's Tale and the Protector of the Small series by Tamora Pierce. No magic or darkspawn in this 'verse!

The final day of the tournament is positively sweltering. Not even a breath of breeze stirs to alleviate the heat, and it shows. The people in the stands are quieter than usual, fanning themselves and shifting sweatily in their seats. On the field, the packed earth is hot beneath the horses' hooves and the sun is a bead of brilliant white light glaring down at the Summerday festivities. Carver shakes his head to dispel the ache settling in from the last pass and shakes out his lance arm. He can see the sun through his visor when he tips his head back, and he spares a moment to curse its presence while he waits for his lance.  

"Ser knight." 

The field attendant has arrived with his replacement. His last lance had shattered quite dramatically on the shield of his opponent, littering the ground with long shards of wood, but he blames the lance rather than the goodliness of his hit. The heat has them all a little slower than usual, a little less precise with their strikes. Ser Hugh had bemoaned his narrow loss to Ser Fenris just two bouts ago, blaming his poor hits on the weather and the warp of the wooden lances—Carver is determined not to fall into that trap.  

He accepts the lance with a deep nod of thanks and hefts it to get a feel for the weight. As requested, it's one of his own lances, checked over by the attendants for tampering. Standard issue lances are too light for him, so this has plugs of lead drilled into it at equal intervals, giving it more weight to steady his strikes. As he nudges his mount forward to the starting line, he thinks back to his days squiring for Ser Cullen and the pranks the other squires would play, filling his practice lances with lead so that he struggled to hit the mark. The joke, he thinks grimly, is on them. Half-common he might be, but he is stronger now than any of them, stronger and faster and more skilled. Which explains why he is consistently at the top of the lists while hardly any of the others make it farther than two rounds.  

Something is delaying the crier. Carver's horse shifts restlessly and he pats her flank with his free hand, clucking soothingly. "One more run, old girl, and then we'll have our just rewards." Hay and water for her, and an ice bath courtesy of his attendant, and for him...  

He scans the stands, and his eyes snap unerringly to the canopy where the King sits with his guests. Felix is there, toward the end, reclining in his seat like the poncey little prince he is. _He_ does not appear to feel the discomfort of today's heat, but then, his land is significantly warmer than Ferelden. From his pose Carver would guess him nonchalant, but even this far across the field he can see that Felix's eyes are sharp and aware, flicking here and there but always coming back to settle on Carver's side of the field. His breast glows with warmth and he refrains from saluting him. Not yet, not before the match is won for sure. Afterward... that will be a different story.  

Still, he touches the scrap of silk just peeking out from his pauldron, bound around his upper arm, a tiny concession to superstition. Felix's token, a deep goldenrod color, bestowed on him the year before at the Summerday tourney where they first met. It's been a long year for both of them—the life of a traveling knight is not an easy one, and the scant letters they were able to exchange did little to fill the void of his absence—but seeing him now is a balm, steadying him, calming the restlessness that beats a tattoo against the inner curvature of his breastplate.  

The reason for the crier's delay becomes apparent suddenly when his opponent's squire trots over from the other side of the field and sketches a quick bow to Carver. Carver sighs and puts up his visor. "Yes, Alain, what is it?" 

"Sorry for the wait, ser, only we had a time getting Ser Paxley's plate fitting right after that last pass. With respect, Ser Paxley requests that you hit lightly and he will be sure to miss his strike. Ser." He bows again, as jumpy as his master, and Carver shakes his head.  

"Very well. But tell him I shall throw him into the air the next time we meet in recompense." 

"Yes ser! Absolutely!" With a little salute, Alain turns and runs back to the other side of the field. For an instant, Carver tips his head back, letting the fresh air kiss his saturated face and blinking sweat from his eyes—in that moment he glances aside, to the stands, and locks eyes with the young prince. His dark face is smooth and unruffled, but his gaze burns with promise. Carver smiles and slams his visor back down with finality.  

The bout is back on. It feels as if hours have passed but in truth only moments—the crier resumes his post and holds his flag aloft, and Carver finds his balance in the stirrups, his knees held close with his mount poised taut below him. She's well-trained and knows the rhythm of the joust, the roar of the crowd. She knows it's time.  

The flag comes down, and so does his lance. He surges forward in the saddle, gripping close to his waist, and through his visor the field is narrowed down to the barrier and the knight a-horseback barreling toward him from the other end. Pax is wavering on purpose, he thinks—his lance isn't sitting level, and the tip judders and sways too much for him to get a good hit. With a sigh, Carver aims askance and braces for the hit. 

Pax doesn't even make contact. Carver's lancetip ricochets off the side of his breastplate, more of a glancing blow than anything, and he pulls up to a trot and then a smooth turn-about at the end of the lane, dropping his unbroken lance to the ground for an attendant. The crowd is cheering—it's not as raucous as it could be, but the day is hot and the win wasn't particularly thrilling. It's clear to anyone with eyes that Pax essentially forfeited the match. Still, he pushes back his visor and salutes the King and crowd with a raised fist, and on the way back to his starting point he pulls up short and clasps gauntlets with Pax. 

"Tough luck, Paxley." 

"Thanks for not taking my head off," he says, red-faced and sheepish under his visor. "And sorry I wasn't a better opponent." 

"Don’t worry, I'm likely to be trounced by Fenris next go-around anyway. See you at the tavern for a pint later?" 

Pax grins wickedly. "If you're not otherwise occupied." His eyes flick past Carver's shoulder to the stands, but he spurs his horse forward and is gone before Carver has a chance to chastise him. He rolls his eyes and slams his visor down before cantering to the other side of the field; when he glances out of the slit of his visor in the middle of dismount, Felix is no longer in the stands.  

When his field attendant has led his horse away to be seen to between bouts, he threads his way through the crowd to his tent. He doesn't need to be back at the lists for another hour or so, and he means to make the most of it. He won't bother to unarm himself, but water and shade linger on his mind like sweet wine on the tongue. But his plans are thrown awry when the flap of his tent falls behind him and he realizes that it's already occupied. 

He stops short just inside, helmet held close against his side and his hair falling in a sweaty wave over his forehead. Standing in the middle of the tent, hands folded demurely and his face fraught with nerves, is Felix. He hasn't seen the man in person since the tourney in Val Chevin, where he took the golden feather with his paramour's scarf tucked beneath his breastplate. It was quite scandalous, then, for a lowly Ferelden half-noble to be seen wearing the favor of a Tevinter prince, even one so low in the line of succession as Felix. But a year of winning tournaments and hearts, and the favors of kings and queens all over Thedas, has put Carver in a very different position than before. A position such that he could accept the favor passed to him earlier by a discreet manservant, and wear it boldly; a position such that he can come forward, casting his helmet aside, and take one of Felix's soft, perfumed hands in his and bring it to his lips. 

"Ser knight," Felix whispers, eyes dancing with suppressed delight. "Forgive me for the intrusion, but I could wait no longer." 

"I have not even earned your favor properly, yet," Carver says, though it's not a true protest. He drinks Felix in greedily, eyes roaming over his face—almost unfamiliar to him with the passage of time—and his clothes, now cut a little closer to his body than he remembers. “You said the illness was past, in your last letter.” 

“It is. But it left its mark, I’m afraid.” A bit of the glimmer in him goes dim, and Carver regrets saying anything about it. “Does it displease milord?” 

“Does it displease—what? _Milord_? Maker above, Felix—Your Highness—my prince.” He fumbles and stammers his way silent, and afterward Felix is smiling again, and Carver is hot with shame. “Forgive me, my words were impertinent.” 

“You care,” Felix corrects gently. His hand is still entrapped in Carver’s gauntlet, but he is able to free himself and turn the palm up, curling their fingers together just so, skin to leather. Carver swears he feels the heat of him all the same. “That is… infinitely more desirable.” 

Felix doesn’t look at all as though he were just sitting out in the hot sun, protected from its baleful heat only by a flimsy bit of canvas. His skin is smooth and warm, not gleaming with sweat as Carver is certain his own must be, and when he allows himself to step a little closer he smells of cloves and the kinds of spices he knows not the name of.  

“I desire you,” he confesses, as strongly as he dares, though the pit of his stomach drops away as he says it. “My prince.” 

“Please.” His eyelids don’t quite shut, but his lashes grow heavy and dark against his cheekbones like the feathers of a lady’s fan. “My token is yours, as is my heart. For you, I am only Felix.” 

Carver’s breast swells, seeming to fill with light, and he bows his head to place another kiss to the backs of his knuckles. He longs to do more—to kneel before him and kiss his feet, to feel the strength and sinew of his body for himself—but he feels keenly the stink and sweat of his own body, the gravid weight of his armor, and his pride cannot bear it. For a moment he thinks Felix might close the gap himself, but he is interrupted. Beyond the flimsy canvas walls, beyond the narrow thoroughfare where he has pitched his tent, a trumpet blast declares the end of the match and the beginning of the next. Carver’s head jerks up, and the moment is broken.  

“Your Highness— _F_ _elix_ …” 

“I know. Your time is almost up. Forgive me, I have waylaid you.” He steps away, carrying the heady aroma of himself with him, and Carver feels the loss as keenly as a blade. "You must be focused for your next bout." 

"Wait," Carver blurts, as he begins to turn away. "Will you accept—it is no token, but I, I was writing to you. And then I thought perhaps, as the tourney was so close, I could... give it to you in person." At Felix's acquiescence, he goes to rummage in his belongings. The letter is as he left it, sealed with wax, and when he passes it into Felix's keeping his hand shakes just a little. It is a very raw letter, as he recalls, written in the aftermath of Felix's illness, when he'd written to tell him he was on the mend. After half a winter dreading the news of the prince's death, he had had much to say and confess.  

"I hope," he says, holding on a bit too long before allowing the parchment to slip from his grasp, "I hope you find it pleasing." 

Felix smiles, tucking it inside his doublet. "I'm certain I shall. Fight well, Ser Carver. I will be watching from the stands." 

"My prince." He bows his head in deference. "My lance is yours." 

Then he is gone. Carver exhales into the quiet, and turns to find a waterskin.  

//

The day's final match colludes at sundown. Overhead the sky is still a brilliant azure, but the heat has begun to fade, and Felix settles in his chair as the final contestants take their places. Ser Cullen Rutherford, boyhood friend the King and a winner of many tournaments, faces off against one of his own, a squire he raised from surly boyhood into the champion he is today: Ser Carver Hawke, brother of the Champion of Kirkwall and, dare he even think it to himself, the man who holds his heart. Felix's hand strays to the front of his doublet, where Carver's letter lingers. It had taken some effort, but he had found a few moments alone in which to read it, and reread it. The words seem branded into his mind, and he mulls them over as the herald cries out their names.  

_~_

_My prince,_  

 _It is strange to thing that I have not seen you since that autumn day in Val Chevin, so many months ago. I shudder to think that your face grows dim in my mind's eye—and yet your smile lingers. I feel it in dark moments, like the warm touch of a friend. I cling to it, when the nights are long and bitterly lonely._  

 _I received your missive today. Short, but the sweetest words I have ever read. You are well. I cannot tell you the long hours I laid awake, thinking of you, praying. I am not a praying man, but for you I would do anything to ensure your good health. I can't pretend that my pitiful pleas even reaches the Maker's ears, but all that matters is that you live. The joy that fills me to read those words over!_  

 _Andraste's love, but I miss you. I miss you as the sun misses the flower in the dead of winter, with no beauty to direct its light to. Winter is passed, in truth, but still I swear I walk in a frozen world without your smile to anoint it. I pray, foolishly and fumblingly perhaps, but I pray that you will be well enough come_ _Summerday_ _to find me in Denerim. I will compete in the tourney there, and should I not see you, my winter shall be unending. Please, my prince, else my heart be broken, come to Ferelden and I will swear to you my fealty and my trust, and serve you as you see fit._  

 _I am yours alone, my prince. With all the love that I possess, I remain yours,_  

 _Ser Carver_  

_~_

The trumpets sound, suddenly, and Felix is at the edge of his seat, gripping the armrests with no attempt to disguise his eagerness. Carver has been reticent as ever, too cautious to openly salute Felix before beginning, but he has adjusted the fit of his token and it rides plainly on his outer arm for everyone to see, brilliant gold with threads of crimson where the rearing dragon of House Alexius is sewn. Some muttering goes down the line of nobility, but the horse moves too quickly for anyone to be sure of the sigil, and then there is a terrific splinter of wood and both men are rocked in their saddles.  

"One lance to each!" comes the cry, and a cheer rises up among the stands—more so among the common folk, Felix notices. Carver's mother may be of noble birth, but he is still one them. Born and raised alongside them, trained to work the land, to do his duty. He is their mascot where Ser Cullen is not, also born of humble origins but raised to nobility by the King's hand before he earned his merits. He is a favorite with the nobles today, but there is no tension in the stands—either victor would be commendable, in their eyes. Felix, a foreigner, is impressed by the general feel of goodwill that suffuses the tournament. Such spectacles in Tevinter are fraught with blood feuds and backbiting. He prays Carver never attends one.  

The knights have ridden back to their places, and Carver shakes out his hand before accepting another lance. Felix watches closely, but he does not appear to be favoring anything. The flag is lifted, adorned with the colors of the Theirin Royal House. And down. The horses charge.  

The blow that Ser Cullen strikes is a sudden and stark reminder that Carver was once merely his squire. It hits square in the breastplate, knocking Carver near off his horse, and the lance shatters cleanly while Carver's barely makes contact, sliding off the brunt of Ser Cullen's shield. A low hiss wafts through the crowd like snowmelt on hot iron and Felix's hand flies to his mouth. But Carver stays a-horseback, just, and has enough verve to pass Ser Cullen a salute on his way back to the start.  

Felix is no longer making an effort to disguise his nerves as _two_ _lances_ _to one!_ is called over the cheers of the crowd. Beside him, a young Orlesian noble gives him a knowing look, which he ignores. Let them talk. Carver is all but wearing Felix's heart on his sleeve, and if they do not know it yet, they will soon. 

The flag drops. Carver's horse surges into movement, and he follows seamlessly, like two creatures blurred into one. His lance is steadier now, against all odds, and he rises just a little in his stirrups as the two knights barrel toward one another at top speed. Felix bites down on the edge of his thumb as they collide—Rutherford's lance splinters, earning him a third point, but Carver seems as unfazed as a mountain, following the momentum of his horse with a wickedly precise strike. The moment seems to blur and stretch before his eyes, and then suddenly Rutherford is flying, an almost graceful arc that ends in the dirt with a puff of dust. His horse slows and stops, disgruntled at the sudden lack of weight, and Carver doesn't even bother to salute the cheering crowd before he's off his own mount and under the barrier to see to his old knight-master. 

Felix grins and sits back in his chair as the score— _two lance to four, and the victory to Ser Carver!_ _—_ is  called out. A well-earned victory, indeed. And ever the chivalrous knight, Carver first helps Rutherford out of the dirt and returns him, somewhat clumsily, to his horse before riding to the stands for his reward. 

Felix holds his breath now, his heart once more in his throat. Carver has taken off his helmet, propping it against his hip as he guides his horse forward with knees, and he is glorious—sweaty and flushed in the aftermath of victory, his wet hair pushed back from his face and his eyes blazing blue and riotous from under the stern set of his brow. He bows to the King, saluting him as is proper, but when he straightens his eyes fall to Felix, and the gilt of his token is clearly displayed for the entire Court to see.  

"A well-earned victory, Ser Carver," the King is saying, over the muted buzz of the onlookers. "By my right as King I name you champion of this tournament, may the Maker grace your steps." 

There will be no reward today, not until the feasting and ceremony tomorrow, so Carver bows again and turns away. At the end of the noble's pavilion he stops, abreast of Felix, and looks up at him with the shadow of a smile in the corners of his mouth.  

"My prince," he says, and he does not bow, but he touches the token bound around his upper arm and Felix can hear the interested mutterings of the other guests sitting near. "The strength of my arm is yours, if you would have it." 

Felix stands, though he feet feel a little unsteady underneath him, and grips the edge of the rail for support. "I would have it, ser, and your heart, if you would honor me with it." 

For a moment Carver appears taken aback, and then he smiles, a small and private thing that Felix cherishes all the more for it. "That has always been yours, I think, my lord." He salutes him, hand to heart, and then he is gone.  

//

As reigning champion of the tournament, Carver is given honorary chambers in the castle, which he accepts with great relief. His body is badly bruised after the week's events, and the promise of a full bath and a real bed is incredibly welcome. It is in the bath that Felix finds him, preparing for the evening's revelry. As he is without a squire, one of the King's own pages helped him with his armor, and he is reclining in the tub with a cool compress over his eyes when there's a gentle tap on the door and someone lets themselves in. _A servant_ , he thinks resignedly. Maker, but Alistair is conscientious.  

"I do not require assistance," he says mildly, waving his hand to dismiss them—but it is caught in a pair of smooth, bejeweled fingers and lifted to a soft mouth, and when he reaches up to pull the cloth from his eyes, Felix is standing there, smiling down at him from over his bruised knuckles.  

"Hush," he says when Carver moves to apologize, mortified at his impertinence. "Please, my love, do not trouble yourself. It was I who came in unannounced." 

Begrudgingly, Carver relaxes back into the water and lets his eyes roam. Felix is dressed very simply after the fashion of his own country, in leggings and a thin silken tunic, the collar cut in a deep triangle to expose the smooth planes of his chest. He finds a bathing stool and sits beside the tub, letting his fingers trail gently through the water. It's cloudy enough with bath oils and grit that Carver's body is invisible, but he feels naked all the same, bared to Felix's knowing gaze. He blushes and looks away.  

"Ser knight." A light finger touches his chin, and Carver must look at him. "Are you so bashful now, when today you bared your heart to me before the entire Court?" 

"Forgive me. I am..." He curls his fingers around the lip of the copper tub and searches for the right words. "I am not as skilled in word as in deed. But everything I spoke—and everything I wrote to you—is true." 

"And would you hear my response?" He shifts on his stool, clasping one of Carver's hands gently, and he feels a flush of shame.  

"Is now the most appropriate time? I am hardly... well, I'm in the _bath_ ," he finishes lamely, and is rewarded with a bright peal of laughter from the man beside him.  

"And I am in my underwear, by your freezing Southern standards. Come, then, if it bothers you—I will wait for you in your bedchamber. Unless you require assistance?" 

Once again Carver is frozen by his forwardness, but he recovers quickly. "I do not _require_ it, my prince, but I would welcome it all the same." 

Felix's eyes are dark and sparkling as black flint. "I thought I asked you to call me by name." 

"Perhaps when you stop calling me _ser_ _knight_ I will find it in me to comply."  

"Fair," he laughs, and reaches for the soap.  

In truth, Carver has already finished most of the dirty work, but reaching one's back is always difficult. He leans forward, chin to chest, and sighs with relief as Felix runs the cloth over his back, taking care not to aggravate his bruises. He rolls up his sleeves, though they are already damp, and soaps his hair as well, smoothing it out with bathing oil afterward to improve the sheen. Then his hands wander, a little—down his throat to stroke the ridge of his collarbones, teasing just below the water.  

His hand skates a bruise, and Carver flinches just a little, lips peeling back from his teeth of their own volition. Felix murmurs apologies and bends, kissing his shoulder very softly. It's such a contrast to the regular beatings suffered during a tournament that his eyes prick with unasked-for tears, and he leans his head back against the rim of the tub in invitation.  

Felix's hand trails lower. Over his chest, lighter than a feather, counting out the ridges of his belly. His rolled-up sleeve meets the water and soaks it up straight away, but he doesn't seem to mind. His fingers dance toward his navel, and then—Carver tightens, eyes half-shut for fear that he will cause offense. "Forgive me," he says, or means to say, but the words are stolen from him as Felix wraps his fingers around the cause of his embarrassment and caresses lightly.  

"Is it safe to say," he murmurs, half-teasing though his eyes are strained with want, "that I may touch you here, without fear of injury?" 

"It is so," Carver whispers, and his next inhale quavers as Felix strokes him gently beneath the water. The surface ripples at the movement and laps against his chin, and when Carver turns his face toward him Felix is there, petting his hair back from his face and kissing his furrowed brow.  

"You are so tense, my hawk. Is there some way I may relieve you?" 

"You are wily," Carver accuses, but his voice is faint with desire and fails to dissuade Felix of anything. "Andraste's grace, but your hands are Maker-sent." 

"Anything for my champion. Ser Carver..." His free hand tightens in his hair, coaxing his head back so that their lips hover close, backed by the sound of water lapping against the side of the tub in an easy rhythm. "Tell me how I may please you." 

A soft grunt escapes as his strokes shorten, focusing on the head in slow, circling movements, and Carver barely has the wherewithal to gasp, "Kiss me." 

They have kissed only once before, and it was fairly chaste. Carver has always been somewhat reticent in matters of the heart, preferring to show his affections on the field of combat or in letters—old-fashioned nonsense, some might say, but he has a soft spot for the type of courtly love that the bards sing of in the halls of their lords. And in truth, while Carver feels the ache of physical need as much as the next man, finds he enjoys a little pining. Drawing out desire, dancing around one another, and then the climax, all the sweeter for the wait.  

Like the sweet, tender moment they shared in Val Chevin before Felix left for Tevinter, this kiss begins slowly, mouths hesitant and chaste—but it does not end that way. Felix twists his hand just so, and Carver gasps, opening to him, to the shallow flirt of his tongue and the sting of teeth. Felix’s answering hum sinking into his bones and his hips shift, sending a wave of water slopping over the side of the tub.  

“ _Oh_.” Felix sits back, hand falling still as he stares down at himself. His white silken shirt is soaked through and plastered to his skin, and even at his odd angle Carver can see the evidence of his desire revealed under his skin-tight attire. “I…” 

“Forgive me.” Carver sits up carefully, dislodging his hand and making to stand. “Perhaps we should transition to the bedchamber?” 

Felix nods shortly, standing and peeling off his outer tunic in one movement. “Perhaps that would be best.” 

Carver tries not to stare, truly—but Felix is beautiful. Even with his body still showing the signs of illness, well past lanky and into painful, rawboned hunger, his spirit burns brightly underneath and he holds his shoulders straight and proud. So Carver stands, too, water streaming off his body and his manhood standing proudly away from his body for Felix’s perusal. Felix licks his lips, and smiles.  

“Come,” he says lowly, holding out one hand.  

Carver is a little uncomfortable with Felix taking on the role of a manservant—truly, their places should be reserved—but Felix has no such qualms. He fetches a towel from the rack and pats him dry, squeezing the water from his hair and taking extra care with his nethers. The cloth is stiff and a little bit coarse, but his touch is gentle and when he squeezes, so lightly, Carver has to put out a hand and brace himself against the tub to keep his balance.  

In the bedchamber, a servant has already been to freshen the sheets and crack the shutter, letting in a hint of breeze as Felix leads them to the bed. Carver doesn't mind being led. On the field of battle, in combat, he is a general in his own right—but here he is subject to his lover's whimsy, a leaf happily carried down the eddies of a magnanimous stream.  

"Will you not lie down?" Felix murmurs when he hesitates before the bed. At his command—for it _is_ a command, not a request, and one that Carver is most eager to obey—Carver spreads himself out on the mattress, moving gingerly to accommodate the battered state of his body. Felix stays where he is, eyes dark and intent as he unfastens his flimsy silk shirt one loop at a time. It's only when he reaches the bottom that he seems to hesitate. The plackets lie close together, baring only a thin strip of dark skin from clavicle to waistband, and his hands hover there, uncertain for the first time since he entered the bathing chamber.  

"What troubles you?" Carver asks, though he feels that he already knows his lover's mind.  

Felix looks away. "I fear that I will not be... pleasing to you." 

A little bit of the spell is broken. Carver sits, swinging his feet to the floor, and reaches for one taut, smooth hand, the fingers still stacked with rings, each nail buffed to a perfect oval sheen. "Do you not trust my word? I desire you, Felix—I desired you a year ago when first we met, and later in Val Chevin, and I desire you all the more now that we have weathered nearly nine months apart from one another." When Felix only smiles vaguely, still unconvinced, Carver slips to the floor and to his knees. Even with the woven rug beneath his knees, the position is uncomfortable; but he is used to weathering pain. "My prince. Will you not let me pay homage to you?" 

"I want nothing more," Felix whispers, deigning at last to touch him—his free hand alights in Carver's hair, still damp from the bath, and curls among the dark strands with fervor. "Forgive me—it is my own pride that stays me. I am... not the man I was in Val Chevin." 

"You _are_ that man," Carver protests vehemently. "You have lived a little more of life, that is all. And I love you all the more for it." 

The tension in his face uncoils, just a bit, and when Carver kisses the back of his hand he smiles. "My hawk. You are more than I deserve, and yet I am selfish enough that I cannot turn you away." 

"If you tried, I would only work harder to prove myself to you." Feeling bold, Carver turns his hand and kisses the palm, then the wrist, so lightly that Felix shivers at the sensitivity. "I am yours." 

"It is quite mutual, my dear. My brave knight." Felix takes charge of his hand and presses it to the flat of his belly. "Get on the bed, darling man, and make me yours." 

Carver tries to spring to his feet and do exactly that, but his joints give out on him and instead he stumbles, biting back a curse at the ache that guts him like the tusks of a wild boar. But Felix will not let him feel ashamed. He cups his face in his jeweled hands and kisses him softly, eases him down onto the bed with a touch to the center of his bruised chest. When he steps out of his clothes and straddles his waist with care, Carver is sure he's no longer breathing. Felix is thin, it's true, the shadow of illness still clinging to him like the memory of a shroud, but his face is bright and full of life, and when Carver grips his hips and squeezes there, he responds as any other man might and moans, eyes half-shut and his cock thickening in his smalls.  

"Beautiful," he says, ragged, and in that moment it's the only word he knows.  

"Kiss me," Felix demands, so Carver does.  

He reaches up, scarred hands shaking, and pulls Felix down to lay against his body as he fits their mouths together. His skin is like satin to Carver's touch, broken only by the subtle architecture of his skeleton beneath; he drags his fingertips up and down his spine, feeling him melt and grow languorous with every stroke, and tastes the wet slide of his tongue. He tastes like he smells—a little bit foreign, but a little bit familiar, like the smudged bundle of letters sitting wrapped in ribbon among his personal belongings at the foot of the bed.  

 _Ser knight_ , they begin, each one, with a little flower doodled in the margin beside it. At first Felix had been reticent, tip-toeing around the true depth of his feelings. But slowly, with each letter exchanged, he unfolded like a flower in the sun to Carver's gentle courtship, much the way he unfolds now, flushed and gasping with every stroke and kiss. Emboldened, Carver turns them over so that he brackets Felix with one elbow, freeing his other hand to touch his cheek, his throat. He has bathed recently, or wears perfume, for he smells and tastes like a balmy garden wherever Carver trails his mouth.  

"Oh," he whispers, like the beginning of a prayer or a benediction to the Maker. But the Chant feels only half as holy as the touch of his lover's hands, the taste of his breath. Carver swallows the sounds he makes with his mouth and devours him gently, worshipping every rough edge and sharp contour until Felix is melting against the fresh bedding.  

"You are so beautiful," Carver says when the pain in his ribs prevents him from continuing. To cover the ache he lays back, propping himself on one elbow, and reaches down to caress the silky skin of Felix's inner thighs. But Felix, even in the throes of pleasure, sees keenly through his façade and presses him down, down to his back on the mattress. 

"And you are in pain. My hawk, do not strain yourself, I beg of you." A kiss is dropped lightly on the bow of his mouth and then his chin, tasting the scar that lingers there from the joust two days ago, when Ser Fenris' lance splintered on his shield and ricocheted up beneath his helm. "Tell me how I might please you." 

"It is my job to please _you_ ," Carver protests. He struggles to sit up but his own body betrays him, and he subsides with a kiss at the complaints of his bruises.  

"And you will. Maker save me, you will." With ginger movements, careful not to jostle Carver's battered form, Felix sits astride him like a knight ready for battle. His manhood juts proudly away from his body, nestled in a dark thatch of curls kept neatly trimmed and shaped, and the plump, cherry-red tip is gleaming and exposed. Carver reaches for him, and Felix makes no move to turn him away; at the first clasp of his fingers around his girth, Felix sighs and leans forward, lashes dark and smokey against his cheeks.  

"What would you have of me?" Carver murmurs, pulling his hand slowly back and forth. "My hand? My mouth?" 

"Yes," Felix breathes. He arches his back with a low cry, and Carver feels wetness well up against his thumb. "Oh Maker—yes, anything, whatever you want." 

"So biddable, my prince," he teases, and laughs when Felix gives him a dire look from beneath his lashes.  

"And now the wastrel finds his tongue." Felix seizes Carver's chin in a firm grip, not enough to hurt but enough to show that he means business. Rather than quail from the sharpness of his gaze, Carver feels a thrill of intrigue, echoed by the hot pulse of blood farther south between his legs.  

“Would you have me silent?” he breathes, almost afraid of the answer. But he cannot be afraid, not with Felix hovering so close, hands gentle at his bruised chest and throat. Felix rises, agile in spite of the quaver in his limbs, and one by one his slim thighs come around to clasp Carver’s neck gently like a collar. Yet he’s careful not to put any pressure on him anywhere, rising up a bit to brace himself against the headboard, and with his other hand he cups Carver’s jaw and strokes the stubbled edge.  

“Silent? No, my love, never that. You may make as much noise as you like.” 

His erection dangles right in Carver’s face. He can smell the musk rising off him, the tang of sweat and the dark bloom of arousal, and he lifts his face on the pillow to nose the underside ever so slightly. When Felix’s lips part, he parts his own as well, dragging the damp inner corner up to the head where the foreskin is pulled taut. There he employs his tongue, light at first, then tasting more insistently, until Felix takes pity and guides himself into Carver’s mouth.  

And Carver _does_ make noise. He can’t help it—Felix’s prick stifles the worst of his cries, but the taste and weight of him are too delicious, the quick, desperate jerk of his own hand too harshly sweet for him to remain silent. He moans when Felix rocks forward and gasps when he withdraws, chasing the fullness and heat. And when Felix tightens, thighs firm to either side and his hand knotted fiercely in Carver's hair, Carver hums encouragement and grunts for breath when he is released and his tongue and cheeks are painted with his lover's spend.  

"I am—sorry," Felix gasps, sagging for the first time, his negligible weight pressing against Carver’s shoulders. “That was… terribly uncouth of me.” 

"That was magnificent, my lord," Carver murmurs, and is rewarded at the flash of fading fire in his lover's eyes.  

" _You_ are magnificent," Felix corrects. Moving like treacle, he frees his hand from the headboard and his thighs from Carver's head, tumbling to the mattress at his side. Carver moves immediately to embrace him, with only a little bit of wincing and discomfort. He brushes aside Felix’s mumbled scolding and kisses him silent, petting the soft stroke of his flank.  

“You’re a mess,” Felix says when they part, a bit stickily—he makes a face, nose wrinkling adorably, and wipes Carver’s mouth free of his seed, and then his own.  

“And whose fault is that,” Carver begins to say, but his words dissolve into gibberish as Felix clasps one hand around his erection. It has hardly flagged at all in the past few minutes, but it resurges to new life at his touch, dragging a deep groan from his chest. “Maker… Felix…” 

“I think it’s high time I return the favor, is it not?”  

“It won’t take long,” he warns, shuddering—his touch is just as illuminating as it had been in the bath, and he can feel himself tearing to pieces already under the weight of Felix’s attentions. “Andraste’s grace, Felix, _please_.” 

And Felix does. His strokes grow shorter, quicker, twisting at the end until Carver’s belly is tight and his toes curl restlessly against the sheets in time with his ragged breath. “My hawk,” he murmurs, and Carver’s eyes shut against the onslaught. “Spend for me, my darling.” 

A few more desperate, straining moments, every fiber of his being stretched to the utmost, and release comes. He cries out, mouth muffled only a scant few moments later in Felix's shoulder, and in the shuddering aftermath everything seems incredibly quiet but for his heartbeat slamming in his ears. His breast aches with it, and he's not sure if it's the strike of the lance or the intensity of his affections that makes it so.  

"Carver," Felix says lowly against his temple. His hand is soiled with Carver's spend, but he strokes him anyway, calming the tremble of his flank like a rider with his startled horse. "My knight." 

"I am yours," Carver gasps, and it is more a vow of fealty than any other promise he has made before.  

"Then stay with me." Felix wipes his hand on the coverlet and lays beside him, one hand tucked beneath his head and the other spread lightly on the center of Carver's chest. "The Grand Tourney isn't for another month. Let us rest, and regather our strength, and when you ride out to challenge the chevaliers of Orlais, do it under my colors." 

Carver's breath catches for a moment. He has always ridden under the colors of his own family, blue and silver, with a thread of red running through as a nod to his commoner origins. He is a Hawke, after all, in spite of his noble blood. Garrett, stubborn git that he is, has always ridden with the red banner under his name, and it has served him well—Carver would never think to claim the colors for his own. But to ride under a _Tevinter's_  colors, to declare his loyalty in such a way...  

"Unless," Felix says haltingly, after a long pause, "it is displeasing to—" 

"Yes. My prince, it would be my honor," Carver says, stumbling a little over his own words. "Forgive me for my hesitation, I did not expect..." 

"Did not expect what?" Felix asks. His thumb draws light circles on his sternum, and Carver can't think of what he _had_ expected in the first place. "That I would bind myself so publicly to a man of Ferelden origins?" 

"To a man of _common_  origins," Carver corrects, though it pains him to say. Not to admit to his inferior blood—he loved his father, and carries the name Hawke with pride—but to remind them both that he is so much less than the young prince who lays beside him. A man whose father holds the Archon's ear, when Carver spent his childhood running amok in the fields and sleeping with the pigs in the winter when it was too cold to leave them outside.  

"Carver." Felix's brow is wrinkled like an old man's with the weight of worry, but his voice is steady and strong and brooks no dispute. "I don’t care about your origins—and as for what the world thinks, you have proven your worth time and again. You are the reigning champion of Ferelden, and you rode against your brother thrice in the Marches and held against him in Starkhaven. This year I will be very surprised if you do not walk away with the golden feather in Monfort as well as Val Chevin. You are worthy of whatever lofty hearts decide to throw themselves at you. 

"But I hope," he adds, small-voiced now, "I hope very much that you will cleave to mine. My name, my banner... my heart." He swallows, and the silence is nearly oppressive, strung with possibility. "Become my champion, Carver Hawke. Fight for me on the field of combat, and return to me at night to rest on your laurels. Winter with me in the north, and let me show you off and coddle you so that you may return to the fight with renewed strength." 

Carver shuts his eyes. "My prince, I would desire nothing more. But... but I do not know if it is possible." 

Felix withdraws his hand, and the absence of that warmth is nigh unbearable. "Tell me why." 

"There are... whispers... that the king will soon demand my skill on the field of true battle." He swallows, and when he opens his eyes he is nearly overwhelmed by the stricken look on his lover's face. "There have been rumors of a rebellion stirring in the Bannorn. And if it should come to pass, they will need every strong arm and stout heart to defend His Majesty's throne." 

Felix shuts his eyes and sits up, turning away. Tentative, Carver lays his hand along the bony slope of his back, and he does not flinch away. "Maker take me, but I am selfish." 

"Not selfish. In love." 

"Is there a very great difference?" He bows his head, and Carver struggles upright, moving past the groaning of his muscles to embrace his little prince from behind and rest his scarred chin on his shoulder.  

"I will know tomorrow, when the festivities are through, if His Majesty wishes me to remain in Denerim. Please. Will you stay here tonight? I am too tired for feasting, but perhaps a servant can bring a tray and we can enjoy one another's... company... until the morrow." 

"When I must give you up, after only just winning you." Felix sighs and shakes his head. "Forgive me. I am being maudlin." 

"I will still be yours, whatever the King decides," Carver says stoutly. He kisses Felix's ear, where a few glimmering drops of gold glimmer in the candlelight. "And I will write to you every day from the field, I swear it." 

It isn't much of a promise, and they both know it—letters are difficult to trade with any regularity when there is war, and any correspondence to Tevinter out of the border will be seen as suspect. But a more concrete oath is impossible.  

Then Felix's body seems to soften, suddenly, and against all odds he laughs. Carver pulls away a little, just enough to peer into his face. He's smiling, eyes alight, and he turns and cups Carver's face between his hands for a kiss. "It's so simple," he says when they part, curling himself more completely into his embrace. "I will not return to Minrathous." 

"What?" 

"My father is on good terms with King Alistair. When I was a child, in fact, there had been talk of fostering me here, when Maric was still king, and the Theirins have been friends to some Tevinter nobility for years. I shall take rooms in the palace here and make myself useful, and I may see you whenever you return to the city." 

Against his will, Carver's heavy heart lightens at the possibility. "Truly? Will you not grow bored away from the parties and glamor of your own country?" 

"Away from the backstabbing and undercutting, you mean? The lying and the bootlicking and the subterfuge? Maker forfend." He laughs again and kisses him thoroughly, so thoroughly that Carver can feel his body prickling awake for another round in spite of its weary, battered state. "Ser knight, your good opinion is the only one that matters to me." 

"And you have it, unequivocally. But Felix... what of your health? Forgive me," he adds hastily, seeing that unfortunate wrinkle appearing again between his lover's brows, "but the climate of Ferelden is quite different from what you are used to. Damp and cold, and the winters can be horrid." 

"We will deal with winter when it comes to it. For now it is summer, and I grow stronger every day." Felix touches his cheek and smiles when Carver leans into it, just a little. "Would it please my hawk, if I were to stay in Denerim?" 

"It would be please me immensely, as long as your health and safety are not forfeit." 

"Then I will speak to His Majesty's steward as soon as may be. But for now..." Another kiss, soft and clinging, and the arousal burning in Carver's gut grows smooth and velvety, suffusing his limbs in a warm glow. "For now, my hawk, remind me what it means to love a knight." 


End file.
